The Best Medicine
by Bad Samaritan
Summary: Mycroft is concerned about DI Lestrade's wellbeing. He turns to John Watson for help. Pre-slash Mystrade. I have no idea where this story came from. It just sort of happened.


**Author's note:** A one shot story about Mycroft's concerns for DI Lestrade's well being. I don't know how this happened, but somehow this became pre-slash. Please tell me how I did because I have no idea.

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><p>Mycroft Holmes was concerned. This time, his concern wasn't directed at his younger brother, but at Detective Inspector Lestrade. The inspector had been acting increasingly strange over the past few weeks. Mycroft, who monitored Lestrade's every move, had noticed a shift in his eating and sleeping habits. The DI had lost an alarming amount of weight and almost never slept through the night any longer. In the work place, he no longer conversed with his co-workers in the friendly manner that had been his custom in the past. He now simply retreated to his office, forgoing all social graces and getting his work done as fast as he could. To make things even more confusing, he was spending more time in his favorite pub than he had previously. Something had changed, and for the life of him Mycroft couldn't figure out what it was. No one close to the policeman had died so it wasn't grief. Mycroft had checked his records, but no event in his past corresponded with start of Lestrade's behavior change. It wasn't any memory that had the inspector so introspective. What else could it be? Mycroft went through hours of security footage looking for anything that could have upset or disturbed Lestrade. He found nothing that would explain the situation. It bothered Mycroft that he couldn't figure out what was going on. The only conclusion that he could draw was that the inspector must be sick. What sickness, however, would cause him to spend more time at the pub? No, it didn't fit, and yet it was the only thing that could possibly be going on. Lestrade did not have a history of depression, nor did that run in his family. It must be some illness he picked up. Nothing else made sense.<p>

As convinced as he was that Lestrade was ill, he could not figure out what the mysterious illness was. Mycroft, however, was not above asking for help, so he sought out the one person he knew he could trust. He decided to talk to John Watson, his brother's flatmate. Dr. Watson was a competent doctor, and he also knew Lestrade well. Undoubtedly, John was the person who could help him. Therefore, it was quietly arranged that Watson would be kidnapped as he was leaving his job at the clinic. John, who was used to such matters by now, came quietly without a fuss, but he did text Sherlock to tell him he was going to be home late. The doctor was taken to yet another abandoned warehouse, where Mycroft was waiting for him in one of two big arm chairs, drinking tea.

"Ah, Dr. Watson, you've arrived. I do apologize for kidnapping you once again, but I didn't want my brother to be involved in this conversation."

John sighed, he had heard that before. This was going to be one of _those_ chats again. "What can I do for you, Mycroft?" He sat in the other armchair, accepting the tea that was offered to him by one of Mycroft's minions.

"Well, it's about Detective Inspector Lestrade." Mycroft explained his concerns, while John mildly drank his tea. The first time his flatmate's brother had spoken to John about Lestrade, he had assumed that they were close friends. Then he had discovered that Mycroft had never actually met the detective. Everything he knew about him had been learned through the application of security cameras and other methods of spying. John didn't know if the Holmes brother stalked everyone this much or if Lestrade was special, but either way it was clear that poor Mycroft was a bit obsessed with the DI. As creepy as that was, John actually thought it was . . . nice. It made Mycroft seem more human. It was because of this understanding attitude that Mycroft turned to John when he needed to talk to someone, and they had had many chats of this kind before. Today, however, was the first time that Mycroft had been worried about Lestrade's health. John was, for the first time, being applied to as a doctor rather than a therapist.

After listening to all that Mycroft had to say, John sighed. Obviously this didn't have anything to do with a mysterious illness. John, too, had noticed the change that had come over the inspector, and it was clear to him that the man was caught in a deep depression. When he told Mycroft so, he was met with an icy glare.

"You think that idea didn't occur to me? He has no history of depression whatsoever. In order for him to be depressed some event would have had to trigger it. There was absolutely nothing that happened to depress him in any way. I've checked the security tapes from the days before the change many times over, and trust me I wouldn't have missed the cause of depression if it were there."

"Maybe it's something that happened internally rather than externally? Maybe something did happen, but just inside his head where there are no security cameras."

"John," Mycroft began, as if he were explaining something to a five year old, "all internal thoughts are reactions to external stimulants. I would have notice the external stimulant and therefore known what his internal reaction was if this were an ordinary case of depression. As I noticed no such thing, I am convinced that he has contracted some illness."

"An illness that makes him spend more time in the pub?"

"I know there are holes in the logic. That's why I'm asking you for . . . help. You know this isn't easy for me to do. The least you can do is try and help."

"Fine," John took out his pen and notebook, "I'll play doctor for you. When did you start noticing any strange behavior?"

"Well, the first incident happened on the fifteenth of February. He woke up at three in the morning and never fell back asleep. I suppose that indicates that whatever illness he has could have been contracted the day before."

John looked up from his notebook, "February fourteenth?"

"Yes, John, February fourteenth is the day before the fifteenth. Even you should know that."

"And what happened on the fourteenth?"

Mycroft gave John a wary look, why did the doctor seem to think he was on to something? "Nothing happened on the fourteenth. That is what's so confusing. He was acting completely normal that day, and then the next he was at the pub till it closed."

"Right, so no cards or candy or anything given to him on the fourteenth?"

"No, John, where are you going with this?"

"I think, I have solved the mystery." John said, closing his notebook with a flourish. "Your Lestrade is depressed because he feels lonely and undesirable. Although you may not have thought it important, February fourteenth is Valentine's Day; a romantic holiday, in which lovers exchange gifts and spend time together. No doubt, on the fourteenth Lestrade realized that he is very much a bachelor and is likely to remain so for the foreseeable future. There is no one in his life even interested in dating him and he is now painfully aware of it."

Mycroft stared at John in amazement. Sherlock must have been rubbing off on his flatmate, because John had never said anything more intelligent in his life. Of course, the doctor was completely right. The answer had been so simple. If only he had understood what Valentine's Day meant to Lestrade he would have figured it out. Of course, he understood the concept of the holiday, but he never would have guessed that someone as practical as the detective inspector would become depressed over something so absolutely trivial. It was true no one in Lestrade's life was romantically interested in him, but the man was far from undesirable. The notion was ridiculous.

John cleared his throat, pulling Mycroft from his thoughts. "Now, Mr. Holmes, I would suggest that you introduce yourself to our mutual friend the inspector. As a doctor, I suggest you administer him with a good dose of attention and gifts. Don't be too forward, mind. And remember, company is the best medicine for loneliness and laughter is the best medicine for depression. Now if you don't mind, I think it's time I started for home. Sherlock has a tendency to burn things if I'm away for too long."

John got into the black car that had driven him to the location, leaving Mycroft sitting in his arm chair, formulating plans on how he was going to introduce himself to Detective Inspector Lestrade.


End file.
